


Meteor

by Blitzindite



Series: Prompt Me [24]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Cybernetics, Escape, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Minor Character Death, Rescue, Sort Of, Star Wars: The Old Republic - Knights of the Fallen Empire, Unethical Experimentation, how else should i tag this uh, i've become attached to minor background npcs because of this. dammit, in a way? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25457593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blitzindite/pseuds/Blitzindite
Summary: The jumbled symbols altered into proper Aurebesh, became a series of numbers and letters scrawled across the screen. One was a set of coordinates. The other, a single word: Meteor.
Series: Prompt Me [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/936513
Kudos: 2





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> prequal to “Lose Count.” I suggest reading that one first, as it gives some insight as to what’s going on here. I feel bad putting Varrich through this, but it was fun! :D
> 
> it… also somehow? turned into a three-parter??? none of my request-fics have never ended up this long oops
> 
> so! here's KOTFE Varrich!

“Sit still.”

The tone was stern. Annoyed.

The anxious bouncing of his foot stopped in record time.

The Mirialan tried not to flinch when cold fingers were on his face, calibrating the newest cybernetic. It was giving him a headache. What did this one even do? She hadn’t explained it yet. All he knew was that there was bruising around it that made even just scrunching his eyebrows hurt.

Despite questions on the tip of his tongue, he kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been allowed to speak. He wasn’t sure he _could_ speak even if he wanted to; his tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth.

She turned away from him, toward her partner. The partner rarely spoke and his eyes, just… Something about the way he looked at Varrich made his skin crawl. That stare studied him like was a specimen—an object—instead of a person. He was typing something while the woman spoke in a low voice. So low Varrich couldn’t make out whatever she was saying.

He never had learned their names. He knew them as the man and woman. As scientists. Engineers. As his handlers. Her, and Him, but never true names.

She spoke often, though rarely to Varrich directly. To herself, her partner, the computers, the communicator on her wrist. He only ever did if she spoke first—often only in answer to her musings, or when they got a surprising result. Oftentimes days or even weeks would go by with Varrich not hearing a word from him.

They wore masks, identical ones with too many contours, and covered themselves head-to-toe. Only their eyes and fingers remained bare of any covering. Their eyes like stone, studious, predatory. Their fingers cold and calloused, nails long enough to bite into skin.

Varrich glanced down at his prosthetic hand, flexed the fingers that didn’t quite move like they were supposed to. They were stiff, pieced together with cheap parts, and the infrared of his cybernetic eye told him it didn’t give off as much heat as it was probably supposed to. Uneven edges bit into his shoulder, cold metal making it hard for him to stay warm in the cool room and thin clothes. He’d gotten used to shivering.

When the lights flickered, his gaze shifted up at them, then to the handlers.

“Check the generators,” She said, gesturing for Him to leave.

Varrich watched the man leave, watched the door slide shut and lock behind him. There had already been one blackout recently—something about an Outlander escaping from…somewhere. He hadn’t caught the details, only bits of what he’d heard the woman mumbling about. After the event, they’d decided to switch to a series of generators so it couldn’t happen again.

It had been difficult to figure out when he couldn’t leave the room and was watched ever so closely.

Well.

Most of the time.

“Nothing wrong? Check again! The lights in here are— _gck!_ ”

The metal floor was cold on his bare feet and her startled breath sharp in his ears when his arms found her neck. She wasn’t a small woman, could have easily overpowered Varrich’s exhausted body if she’d gained the upper hand, but one quick little twist before she’d even realized what was happening, and…

The snap was satisfying. He’d be lying if he admitted otherwise.

He’d been wanting to do that for a long, _long_ time.

She crumpled to the floor. Her neck sat at an awkward angle, head turned in a direction that shouldn’t have been possible for a Human. In an instant, Varrich was pawing at her pockets for a keycard, a datapad, anything (only finding a keycard. _dammit_ ), then…

Then he was running. Tripping. Wincing whenever he stepped on something sharp or stubbed his toe or rolled an ankle, careening into walls as he bolted into turns, but pressing on.

The building was a maze of halls and rooms, many places bolted or welded shut and a select few others ablaze with light that filtered through the locked doors. The rooms were the only places with upkeep while the halls were left to practically fall apart. Leaking, panels peeling away to expose the structure beneath. Something smelled strongly of mold.

But every window was covered; he needed a real exit if he wanted to get out of there.

He knew there were others—others like him, others like the handlers—but his mind wasn’t focused on them. His mind was only on finding the exit. Getting out of there. Getting off Zakuul. Going…somewhere. Anywhere else. Anywhere but back to that damn room and cold hands and feeling like prey.

His shock collar made a noise—an error, as He tried to use the remote. Varrich had found a way to deactivate it days ago. A little damage here and there, nothing noticeable at first glance, playing with it when they were out of the room, and it proved just enough. He’d been very careful to obey orders so they wouldn’t try to use it and realize what he’d done. Getting it off was another matter entirely, but as long as it couldn’t be used he’d settle on that for now.

Passing rooms—both occupied and blocked—tripping down a flight of stairs, bruising his heels with every pounding step. He could hear the lift, the errors from his collar—Him. The remaining of his two handlers was going to the first floor.

When he hit the last step, Varrich bared his teeth as the lift door opened to allow the handler to start shooting. The bolts were aimed to incapacitate, not kill, as they went for his legs.

Just keep running, he urged himself even as his body ached and breathing grew heavy.

There! An exit!

He fumbled with the keycard, yelped, practically fell out the door as it finally slid open and a blaster bolt met his calf. It left his pantleg singed, blacked the skin where it met; he could smell burned flesh.

Push on, he growled in his head, you’ve had worse.

The door led out into an alley. Both ends were guarded by tall fences; he’d have to climb to get on the other side. He lunged for one of the fences, fingers grabbing the thick wire, knuckles going pale, metal hand creaking with the strain—

Another bolt, in the back of the knee and forcing him into a kneel.

Despite it, he tried to stand again. Used the fence to pull himself up, gritting his teeth when the leg wouldn’t cooperate. A third bolt hit the shoulder of his prosthetic. Something in it popped and sparked.

The ground was damp. Soaked his pantlegs. He couldn’t help but shiver as the cold bit through him even as he glared over his shoulder at the man behind him. The blaster was poised, and…

And Varrich’s shoulders sagged. He pressed his forehead against the fence, brought his hands up behind his head. He’d been so _close_. Eye squeezed shut, he could feel the blaster nosing the back of his neck.

Then he heard a click—couldn’t help but flinch. It was small, faint, like a tiny button or switch being…

The blaster’s safety. The safety was put on.

Varrich spun even as his injured leg protested, even before he really registered what he was doing, swung with a heavy metal arm for the handler’s gut.

It was enough for the blaster to be dropped. It was enough to bring the man to the ground gasping and wheezing and coughing.

Teeth bared, Varrich’s hands found the man’s throat and squeezed. Even as the handler choked for air, as he kicked and clawed, as his mask was knocked away to reveal the middle-aged Human beneath it and his nails found Varrich’s skin to draw blood, the Mirialan only tightened his grip. Tighter, and tigther, until he heard a crunch. Tighter, until the man’s trachea was crushed under a metal hand. A metal hand _he’d_ built. A metal hand _he’d_ forced upon Varrich. A metal hand— _arm_ —so poorly crafted that he couldn’t remember what it was like to _not_ have heavy bruising where it met his shoulder.

A metal hand Varrich had never needed or _wanted_.

The struggle died with the handler’s final, futile gasp for air.

His hands felt like they were locked around the man’s throat. Neither wanted to budge even as his eyes unfocused and mouth fell slack—not the metal one, nor his own, would cooperate.

His gaze met dead eyes, and for the first time in years he felt…safe, in a way. Safe, despite the dangerous alleys beyond. Instead of studying him, those eyes stared through him.

He swallowed, pried his hands away, took a deep breath.

Grabbing blindly for the blaster, he slung it over his shoulder and reached for the fence again. He…he needed to hurry. He didn’t know how many others there were, nor how long it would be before they realized the handler hadn’t yet returned.

The climb was slow—so, so much slower than he’d have liked. He’d lost a lot of strength in his arm, would have to work hard to get it back, and with an injured leg he nearly slipped off more than once. At least bare feet made it easier…

Up, over, groaning when he landed on his back on the other side. He laid there only as long as he dared before rolling over and dragging himself back on his feet.

Okay, okay. Hard part’s almost over, he told himself. Hopefully…

He just needed to get away from there and find a terminal to send out a signal. Easy.

…Well, maybe not as easy as it would have been had he not taken a few blaster bolts the leg, but he’d have to make do. Deep breath, remember your SpecOps training, go.

So, _maybe_ he ended up stealing a speeder (with low fuel; it wouldn’t get him far) from right over its spiced-out driver’s nose. And _maybe_ he’d ended up needing to use the blaster once (okay, _a few times_ ) when some particularly aggressive individuals tried to jump him. And _maybe_ he’d swiped a datapad from an… _otherwise occupied_ couple. But he wasn’t exactly focused on being a “good soldier” right then. The alleys were dangerous, he was exhausted and hurting—he needed out of there but it was like a damned maze. Without help, he’d never find an exit.

When he finally found a terminal to connect the datapad to (an old one with poor upkeep but that should hopefully give him a stronger connection) he went to work while keeping his head on a swivel. The connection was still poor, the comm signal wouldn’t reach far, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try. If he could just get it to reach a frequency the Republic would hopefully be watching…

His call sign and coordinates were all he could manage before the terminal made a horrible error sound that had him flinching and reeling back to cover his ears. Then, that was that. It had shut itself down, likely for good, had fried the datapad through their connection. It had used up the last of its life for a signal that Varrich could only hope would reach the right ears.

Grimacing when his leg buckled, all he could do was find a place near the terminal to tuck himself away. A place he could watch the surrounding alley while being easily overlooked himself.

When he finally found such a place, he practically collapsed upon reaching it. He was cold and aching and exhausted and damn the blaster seemed far to heavy as he moved it into his lap. He tipped his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eye.

Now all he could do was wait, and hope.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character Injury, Guns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve only written Jorgan one other time, so doing something from his POV was a bit tricky! fun challenge, tho

“What do you mean, you can’t decrypt it?” Jorgan’s eyes were narrowed as he leaned over Abbeth’s shoulder to look at the screens in front of the Kel Dor. Abbeth had intercepted a transmission not long ago.

Kanner had her hands clasped behind her back as she paced behind them. “We mean exactly that, Major. None of use recognize the encryption method; there’s no known decryptions for it.”

Scowling, he leaned over the computer as Abbeth ducked out of his way. “I believe I can crack the code given enough time, however,” the Kel Dor said. “The pattern seems somewhat similar to our own.”

Brows furrowing as he got a good look at the encryption, Jorgan could only shake his head. That…that was the previous Havoc’s encryption method! Yuun had created the code. They used a heavily altered version of it now, but…

“I can decrypt it.” It had been a long time since he’d needed that code, but his fingers found the keys to decrypt it as if he’d used it only yesterday. The jumbled symbols altered into proper Aurebesh, became a series of numbers and letters scrawled across the screen.

One was a set of coordinates. The other…

He couldn’t help the way his breath caught. That call sign… “That’s not possible.”

Alongside the coordinates was a single word: _Meteor._

“…Meteor?” Abbeth’s clawed fingers tapped thoughtfully at his mask. “Wasn’t that the Colonel’s call sign?”

“It could be a trap, sir,” said Kanner. She’d stopped her pacing to set her eyes on the screen. A deep frown had etched itself into her face.

“Undoubtedly.” Maybe…maybe Vik had given out— _sold_ —the information for the old encryption and even their call signs. Jorgan really wouldn’t put it past him, he thought with a twinge of annoyance.

Shaking his head (to clear it? or to remind himself the Colonel had died a long time ago?), the Cathar turned away from the computer. “But we should still investigate. It might not be our current encryption, but I don’t want a Zakuulan wandering around with it regardless.” Turning his gaze to the squad’s other members revealed Dengril running checks on medical supplies, but Xaban and Torg were hovering nearby and had clearly heard what was going on. “Torg, with me. The rest of you, listen to Kanner.”

A chorus of “Yes, sir!”s rang through the camp.

A supply and weapon check, fuel check on the pair of speeders they’d be taking, then with the Kaleesh at his heels, Jorgan took off for the Spire. The coordinates would take them right into the heart of Breaktown. As if that didn’t make things any more suspicious than they already were…

He couldn’t help but think how accurate the Endless Swamps’ name was as they traveled through it. On speeders instead of a shuttle, they seemed to stretch on for ages. It would be a long trip.

When Torg’s speeder pulled up beside him, Jorgan threw his chin up toward the Spire looming through the trees in the distance. “Hope for the best, expect the worst!” he shouted over the wind in his ears and growling engines. “Be ready for anything!”

“Just another day for Havoc Squad, Major!” The Kaleesh called back before setting his eyes ahead of them.

Right to the heart of Breaktown… Dammit. Jorgan wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not about that. On the one hand, that meant no Knights or Skytroopers. On the other, well… It was _Breaktown_. Damn place was filled with the worst of the worst criminals.

They parked at the edge of the swamp, pulled branches and vines to cover their rides, then…

Nodding to each other, they performed one last check of their blasters, then started the rest of their trek on foot. Through murky water and thick mud that grabbed their boots and twisted foliage that reached out for their clothes, snagged at Jorgan’s fur and had Torg spitting when leaves made it past the slit in his mask to catch in his teeth, they didn’t speak a word.

If Vik really had sold out that encryption—

Oh, when Jorgan got his hands on that man…

Breaktown was easy enough to reach from the swamp. At least, compared to trying to get into the main sectors of the Spire would have been. There were plenty of places to climb (and Cathars and Kaleesh both having claws sure helped things) and an alarming number of access ports and drainage systems that they could travel through with them not being properly closed off.

“…Feels like we are being watched.” Torg’s thick accent cut through the silence like a knife. It was hard to make out his expression beneath the mask, but Jorgan could see teeth being bared as his eyes pinned on shadows. His hands were tight on his blaster.

“Someone’s always watching here.” For someone to mug, or to kill, or to keep them away from things or places they’d become possessive of. “Keep your guard up.”

They had to backtrack a few times and find the long way around in places. Breaktown was massive and they had no maps; they had to rely wholly on trial and error as well as memory to reach the coordinates’ origin.

The origin was easy to find once they actually came across it: A powered-down terminal and dead datapad on top of it. Jorgan frowned and brought up his blaster as they approached the machine. The terminal didn’t react when he tried to turn it on, and the datapad looked like it could have been smoking not long ago. It was completely fried.

“Search the area, but stay close,” he ordered.

Careful steps, trying not to splash in the puddles or step on anything that would make too much noise, blaster poised at his shoulder, eyes scanning. Now who had—

“Major!” Torg had his blaster aimed down an alley, head ducked low and stance like he was ready to pounce. “A voice,” the Kaleesh growled.

A soft whisper followed. It was from in the alley. Both Jorgan and Torg turned their sensitive ears toward it.

Again, slightly louder. The voice broke as if from disuse, but they could both hear it clear as day that time:

“Jor—gan..?” A cough. “Jorgan..?”

The alley was dark, the voice’s owner well-hidden in the shadows. But the voice itself…

He never thought he’d hear that voice again.

Jorgan’s brows furrowed. He barely recognized his old commander. If it wasn’t for the tattoos across his face and…hand? why was the other..? he wasn’t sure he could have. And even knowing it was Varrich, it was hard to believe this was the same man who’d led Havoc Squad for years before he’d disappeared.

“Is that really you, sir..?”

His natural, black hair had grown back out; it was unkempt, too long, hanging in his face and soaked with rain or sweat. His…eye? why the hell was he missing an eye _and_ an arm? was hollow and tired and dull, and he looked like he’d lost a lot of weight: Face gaunt, thin clothes hanging too loosely off his body, fingers bony. And—

And he was aiming a blaster at Torg…

The Kaleesh just tipped his head a little, mostly curious as he gave Jorgan a questioning glance even as a blaster was pointed at him, and slung his own weapon over his shoulder. He saw no threat in Varrich, not with his current state.

“Hey, easy, easy.” Jorgan knelt at Varrich’s side, hand on the blaster to push it back down. “He’s with me.”

“Is the Colonel? Yes?”

“’Colonel’..?”

“I’ll explain later.” Jorgan carefully pried the blaster out of the man’s hands to pass to his companion, then fished through his bag for water. The Mirialan seemed desperate to take it when it was offered to him.

There were cybernetics all over him, bruises, scratches. He looked like some sort of Imperial cybernetics experiment. “What _happened_ to you?”

The answering huff sounded like it was meant to be a laugh, perhaps, but it was empty. Tired. Forced. After getting some water down, his voice wasn’t quite as scratchy, but still broke in places. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.” His gaze shifted back to the Kaleesh, shoulders stiffening. “Who is..?”

“Sergeant Sheiraagh jai Torg,” he greeted, saluting. It was clear Torg was trying to seem nonthreatening as he stood a few steps back and kept his hands away from his weapon, but the growl that came with part of his name had Varrich twitching as if to reach for another weapon that he didn’t have anyway.

Jorgan couldn’t help but feel a little bad for Torg. Sure, as a Kaleesh he was warlike and the traditions of his people were important to him, but he a good man and enjoyed making others laugh, was determined to be a good soldier and make superiors proud. Seeing a man he looked up to possibly frightened of him had to be a blow for him.

“You’ve got a lot to be caught up on, sir.” A once-over revealed to Jorgan blaster burns in one leg and the scratches on his arm and hand. The scratches were deep enough to have drawn blood, but not so bad that they were what Jorgan was worried about. “Have you been on Zakuul this whole time?” he asked as he searched his bag for kolto patches. They’d have to do for the burns until they could get him to Dengril for proper care.

Varrich was nodding absently as his gaze shifted between them and around the alley. It was like he was expecting someone. “Don’t like when we try to run.” He sounded tired, like they’d woken him up with their arrival. He tried to rub at his neck. Jorgan cast a glance at Torg when the man’s hand only found the shock collar and he dragged his nails over it.

“Who doesn’t like when you try and run?”

“I…don’t know. Black market? Probably.” His nails scraping over the device had both Jorgan and Torg grimacing as the sound hit their ears. When he stopped, he instead touched his fingers to the cybernetics visible on his face, tapped one of them gingerly as if touching it hurt. Judging by the bruises spanning his face—particularly dark ones around the cybernetics, like they hadn’t been implanted properly—it probably _did_ hurt. “Used us to figure out how to do it, then sold their services in the streets. That’s what She mentioned once.”

“…Us? You’re not the only one they did this to?”

There was a growl from Torg at that—Varrich’s prosthetic arm shifted in front of him at the sound of it and his uninjured leg started bouncing. He’d never seen the man so nervous. “Filthy scum,” the Kaleesh snarled. “Is no honor in what those…” He went on to mutter something in Kaleesh that Jorgan had never heard before. The tone of his voice made it obvious enough that he was spitting insults or curses (probably a combination of both), however. Clearly, Basic didn’t have strong enough terms for what he wanted to say.

While Jorgan placed the patches on the burns, it barely got a reaction. Varrich was too focused on keeping an eye on Torg to really notice. “…Why is he here? Where’s the rest of the squad?”

“Will tell you at camp,” Torg answered before Jorgan could even open his mouth. “You are hurt and is a long way back to the speeders.”

“He’s right. Think you can walk, sir?”

They had to help him stand and take turns supporting him, and it proved even harder to get out of Breaktown than it had to get in since they were forced to used different routes and Varrich was limping.

There was a point where someone was determined to mug them and Torg used the blaster they’d taken from Varrich—though instead of using it like an actual blaster, he swung it at the would-be mugger’s head like a club. She was out cold in an instant.

Where the Mirialan would have once snorted or given an exasperated roll of the eyes at such an unusual use of a blaster, he instead looked blankly at the woman’s crumpled form and shifted a step back from Torg. The Kaleesh gave Jorgan a look, but the Cathar could only offer a shrug. Whatever had happened to Varrich over the five years he’d been missing, he was no longer the steadfast leader Jorgan once knew: Too nervous, watching shadows and flinching, the way he kept eyeing Torg with blatant distrust even after Jorgan had vouched for him. Whenever it was Torg’s turn to support him, he leaned away from the Kaleesh.

Out of the Spire, back to the swamps—the rest of the squad would be wondering where they were by now.

“Nearly there,” Jorgan said as he swapped with Torg again, the Kaleesh taking the injured man’s arm over his shoulders to help him over to the hidden speeders. Jorgan opened up his comm channel, made sure it was still properly encrypted, then spoke into it, “Deadeye to camp. Rulebook?”

“ _Here, sir,”_ Kanner answered from the other end.

“We’ll be back in approximately two hours. We have a plus one, injured with damaged cybernetics; make sure Kolto and Click-Click have supplies ready.”

“ _What of you and Copycat?”_

“No injuries, but see about readying three dry uniforms.”

“ _Yes, sir.”_

Closing the channel, Jorgan climbed onto his speeder in front of Varrich.

“Rulebook, Kolto, Click-Click, and Copycat?” His voice was soft and brows furrowed; Jorgan almost didn’t hear it as he reached to start the speeder. “Is…Rulebook Dorne? Didn’t sound like her… Is she Kolto? But who are the rest?”

“No, sir. Only one left of the old team is me. Copycat is Torg here, and you’ll meet the rest when we get to camp.” He reached back to tap the man’s arm, to grab it and guide it to hold his armor or waist. “Now hold tight. It’s a rough trip back.”


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who’s now become attached to a bunch of background NPCs who only got a few lines in-game??? this guy!!

Even with his clothes soaked with rain and sweat and swamp water, even shivering, his mind racing in a thousand different directions, there was comfort with Jorgan’s presence. He pressed his forehead to the scuffed armor at the man’s back and let his eye drift closed.

He couldn’t hear much over the speeder’s engine, but he was oddly okay with that. Instead, he paid attention to how water splashed up at his bare feet and wind whipped his hair and the way his stomach dropped with tight turns and how the Kaleesh and Jorgan would occasionally shout at each other to be heard over the wind and engines.

When they finally came to a stop, Varrich jolted upright. He…hadn’t realized he’d started dozing off.

Blinking, he cast a glance over his new surroundings.

A camp in old ruins, a computer setup run by a small generator, tents and crates and what looked like a shuttle under a massive tarp. Four others, milling about. Varrich recognized the insignia on their armor. The same insignia he’d worn for years and could probably draw with his eyes closed if he wanted to. Their faces were a different matter.

They were all strangers to him. Two Humans, a Kel Dor, and a Twi’lek—and that wasn’t counting the Kaleesh, Torg, as he climbed off his speeder and waved down the Twi’lek.

Varrich squared his shoulders when one of the Humans approached.

Where was the team he’d served with for so long? Where was Dorne, and Forex, and Yuun and Vik? When Jorgan had said…

He’d said he was the only one left of the old team. Hearing it was one thing, but _seeing_ it? Seeing all these strangers wearing a symbol that Varrich had worn with pride as he led Havoc? Seeing it was something else entirely.

Then…they were all saluting. Even as surprise and disbelief etched their features, concern across the Human male’s, even as Varrich’s cybernetic arm curled up as if to protect him from a threat, they saluted.

“Jorgan… Where’s the old team?”

“Let’s get you do the medical tent, first.” The Cathar already had a hand on his arm to help him off the speeder. “I’ll explain while Dengril tends to your injuries.”

“Dengril?”

The Human male gave a relaxed salute to draw attention to himself. “Lieutenant Milo Dengril—Havoc’s medic,” he greeted. He had an eyepatch, and the light on it glowed almost easily in the dull swamp. That patch did nothing to soften what seemed to be a permanent scowl on his face.

It was even harder to walk now than it had been when he escaped—that’s even with Jorgan and Dengril at either arm. The soles of his feet were practically shredded and bruised to hell and paired with one bad leg, every step had him wincing and gritting his teeth. He could only be grateful that the camp was small and Jorgan had parked fairly close to the tent.

The “bed” was really just a simple cot. Something that could easily be packed up and moved when they tore the camp down. That didn’t change the fact Varrich wanted to just lay back on it and sleep for a few days; it was softer than the one he’d had before, that’s for sure.

Despite outward appearances, Dengril’s hands were gentle and had almost droid-like precision as he tended first to the blaster burns.

He’d taken Dorne’s place as the squad’s medic.

Maybe it was the way he watching Dengril, or perhaps his expression, but Jorgan must have caught on to his train of thought as he leaned his elbows on his knees. “We stayed here to keep searching for you. We’d disobeyed orders to return to Republic space trying to find you, sir. We were reprimanded, and Saresh—” he said the name with a distasteful curl to his lip, like it was nothing but poison—Varrich was inclined to agree, “—took it as her chance to remove Dorne the moment we were back on Coruscant. You hadn’t even been gone two months when Dengril was sent to replace her.”

Varrich shook his head and muttered under his breath. Not even he was really sure what exactly he said. “Because she’s ex-Imperial?”

Jorgan only touched a finger to his nose as he glared out at the camp beyond the tent.

“Had a lot to live up to,” the man in question said. He moved to start working on Varrich’s feet, and the Mirialan grimaced as he started cleaning away the blood. “Didn’t want to split up the squad, but it also needed a medic with her gone.”

“Where was she stationed?”

Jorgan offered a shrug. “Uncertain, though the Supreme Commander had shown interest in her. With any luck, she serves him and Saresh didn’t destroy her career.” He leaned back, then, setting his sights on the other Human. Before she could duck into another tent, he called out, “Kanner! Did you get those uniforms?”

“Yes, sir! Gathering them up.” Into the tent, then back out in a flash with the uniforms piled up in her arms. “Torg is already changing.”

Jorgan took them, then nodded to the woman. “Sir, this is my XO. She joined us shortly after Dengril. Good eye—if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’d been a Deadeye.”

For the second time since they’d arrived, she saluted. “Captain Hylie Kanner. An honor to meet you, Colonel.”

Colonel. There it was again. He’d been a major, not a colonel. Maybe it was the furrowed brows and frown that reminded Jorgan that he’d said he would explain it.

“When we couldn’t find you, you were eventually announced KIA. You…were promoted posthumously at your service.” He shook his head. “Sorry that’s what it took.”

Varrich pinched the bridge of his nose even as it irritated the bruises spanning his face. New team, new rank that had been given _at his funeral_ , Havoc back on Zakuul…and the new cybernetic was giving him a headache again. Too much was going on all at once. But he needed to know.

“…The rest of the team. Both teams. Who and…why?”

“I tried to keep us together, but there was only so much I could do. As the years went on, the squad changed.” Kanner ducked out as Jorgan pointed toward the Twi’lek. “Vik was next to leave. Without you to keep him in check, he returned to crime.” Varrich’s frown mimicked Jorgan’s as he said it. “Sergeant Xaban was his replacement. She can be reckless, but she knows her explosives and looks out for the team.”

Xaban was laughing while Torg’s arms waved about. The Kel Dor had his face in his hands as he shook his head.

“Yuun left and turned to Wild Space—to look for you, actually. Who knows, maybe he’s even on Zakuul?” He pointed to the Kel Dor, then. “Sergeant Ro Abbeth took his place.”

“Technical engineer,” Varrich concluded. If that was the place he filled in the squad, it would have made sense for Jorgan to have requested Dengril _and_ Abbeth to tend to Varrich.

…Not that he wanted anyone messing with the cybernetics. Not for now, at least. Just the thought made him start bouncing the leg Dengril wasn’t tending to.

“Click-Click?” Kolto as a medic’s call sign and Rulebook for an XO sounded straightforward enough, but Click-Click for an engineer?

Jorgan hummed the affirmative, then started tapping a finger on a crate near him; his claw clicked loudly against the metal. “Constantly taps his claws. Says he was called that since his earliest Academy days.”

As Dengril stepped back to grab a scanner, Jorgan passed one of the dry uniforms to Varrich. “And you’ve met Torg. He’s our newest member—our muscle. Still green as far as the rest of the team’s concerned. Young, too, and a fast learner. Had never spoken a word of Basic when he joined and picked up on it incredibly fast.”

“What happened to Forex?”

“Glorified morale officer,” Jorgan snorted. “Don’t think he’s even been allowed off Coruscant since he was restationed. And since he’s a droid, it’s not like anyone’s going to realize what a mistake it is to be keeping him from the fight with Zakuul. No, instead he gives speeches.”

Forex kept off the battlefield? Whose bright idea was that? Varrich thought bitterly. “How’s the fight going, anyway? I’ve…been mostly in the dark about anything that’s happening.”

Jorgan made a face he couldn’t quite place. “Technically…” He shook his head and sighed. “The Republic isn’t fighting, sir. Both it and the Empire have a treaty with Zakuul and it’s bleeding them both dry.” He’d started changing into the dry uniform, though paused for a moment while pulling on the boots. “Havoc is considered rogue and we’ll receive a court martial upon our return.”

Varrich went still at that, stomach twisting. Court martial..? He opened his mouth, but his voice caught in his throat. Then, “…You could be _killed_ , Jorgan.”

“We knew what we were getting into.” His tone became flat—dismissive, even. He knew that fact, accepted it. Whatever they were doing on Zakuul, they felt it was worth dying for. “With all due respect, drop it, sir. You need to worry about recovering. Not what we’re doing.” He stood, grabbing for the clean, dry uniform Kanner had brought for Varrich. “Let’s get you changed. Abbeth should be over shortly.”

“You can’t just—”

“Drop it.”

Silence. Awkward, heavy, silence, as he and Dengril helped Varrich get changed into something he wouldn’t be shivering in. _Drop it._ Like he could just forget that. But he bit his tongue—both metaphorically and physically, catching the tip between his teeth before he could start arguing. He wasn’t sure he even had the energy to argue, if he was completely honest.

Instead, he took a slow, deep breath. He trusted Jorgan’s judgment. Always had. Whatever Havoc was doing on Zakuul, he had to have thought it over carefully before actually deciding to come here. He knew what he was doing, and the new squad had loyally followed its leader even knowing what they’d be getting into.

That didn’t change the fact that Varrich didn’t like it. Couldn’t change the worry that gnawed at him.

The next hours passed in a blur. Abbeth had successfully removed the shock collar and now Varrich found himself constantly rolling his head to stretch his neck and rubbing a hand over it; part of him had a hard time believing it was actually gone. He’d had run scans over the cybernetics—even with the mask and protective eye-wear, it was obvious he would have been frowning.

He’d tried to start repairs, but only managed to get the new one sorted out so it would quit giving Varrich headaches (turned out it was a HoloNet uplink. what the _hell_ could he do with one of those?) before Varrich had shoved him away with a snarl. The bruises hurt and, yeah okay, _maybe_ he was used to only having one worked on at a time so trying to move to the next wasn’t the routine he was used to, and _maybe_ having the Kel Dor’s claws so close to his remaining eye had made his breath hitch a little.

He caught the way Abbeth, Dengril, and Jorgan glanced at each other, but only crossed his arms and scowled. “If none of their problems are life-threatening, just…” He waved a hand dismissively. “Leave them be for now. Please?”

And…That was that. Abbeth would glance over at him occasionally, likely debating what he needed to work on the next time Varrich gave him the chance, and Dengril’s eye would scan over him as if searching for more injuries. The Kel Dor clearly wasn’t fond of leaving the damages, but like hell if Varrich cared.

He learned quickly that Abbeth and Yuun probably would have gotten along. His deep, gravelly voice paired with the way his mask altered it could startle any man if they didn’t know he was there, but he was surprisingly softspoken and seemed to have endless patience. Curious, too. Varrich could picture him and Yuun trading notes or working on a project together.

Varrich’s gaze shifted, from Abbeth over to the Twi’lek. Xaban smiled and laughed a lot and had the lines around her mouth and eyes to show it. She may have taken Vik’s place, but she seemed far more bubbly and approachable than her predecessor in the position. Would have driven Vik crazy, no doubt. Varrich learned through her constant banter with Torg that her call sign was “Boom.” Whether it was because of her status as the team’s demolitions expert or the recklessness Jorgan had mentioned, Varrich wasn’t sure. He hoped it was the aforementioned instead of the latter.

Dengril was gruff and had a “nothing surprises me anymore” sort of air about him. Even so, he’d crack the occasional smile when Xaban or Torg managed to say just the right thing.

It wasn’t long before Jorgan was ducking through the group as rations were dealt out and was cutting toward the spot Varrich had tucked himself into. It was a nice little spot, out of the way, but still close enough he could watch the group of strangers without actually speaking with them.

Varrich frowned as some of the food was passed to him.

“…This is more than a regular ration.”

“No offense, sir, but you look like a starved womp rat.” He sat at Varrich’s side on the slab of crumbling stone. “You should really get to know the team. I imagine you and Kanner would hit it off—she reminds me a lot of you, actually.”

At mention of her name, the Mirialan’s gaze moved to find her. While the others ate and chatted, she sat a little ways away, focused more on the swamp beyond the camp with a blaster ready at her side. Xaban didn’t take long to find her side, however, and the smallest, briefest smile found Kanner’s face at something the Twi’lek said.

“They…seem to get along well.” For a squad like Havoc, getting along—trusting one another—was important. Moving as one, being quick to agree without arguing to give themselves away, it would keep them alive on the field where other teams could fall apart.

“For the most part.” Jorgan gestured to the group—Dengril had turned his back, and Torg was mimicking him with over-exaggerated movements while he wasn’t paying attention to the Kaleesh. It had Xaban cracking up and her laughter was enough to alert Dengril to something amiss. By the time he’d whipped around, Torg had turned to say something to Abbeth as if he hadn’t done anything. Ah. Now “Copycat” made sense for his call sign. “Sometimes they’re a little harder to wrangle than the old team, but they’re a good one. Would have made you proud had you served with them, sir.”

There was fondness in Jorgan’s voice. Varrich wanted to smile as he noticed it, but it was hard to smile anymore. Instead, he offered, “They’ve got a good leader; I’d expect nothing but the best.”

Jorgan smiled—actually smiled, it was small but there—briefly before standing. “Eat, then try and rest. There’s a setup for you ready in Dengril’s tent, and come morning I expect you to let Abbeth work on more of your repairs.” When Varrich opened his mouth to argue, Jorgan put up a hand to stop him. “I know, he says none of the damages are severe, but they’re still damages. They need to be worked on.”

The Cathar reached a hand down, and Varrich took it to stand. He couldn’t help but wince a little as he did (his feet and leg still ached, but the kolto had helped a lot) and reached down to grab what was left of his ration.

Jorgan’s hand was at his shoulder, squeezing in farewell, but also like he was making sure Varrich was actually there and not just some fever dream. “It’s good to have you back, sir. Try and get some sleep—you’ve had quite a day.”


End file.
